“Are girls fun?” is a question that has literally occupied to the maximum extent the minds of thinking men. A man like me who has not been in the company of the delicately nurtured very often and never wants to face the ordeal anyway may utter a sudden strong no. But answering this question requires what is called by the intelligentsia tact which certainly a man of such type would have no clue about. But what I can do now is narrate one of my experiences the gist of which says it all.
I once got a phone call from this girl who I used to know in college to come and meet her in a darned mall. I did, unpleasant of course. Hers is a very tender heart, the one which I’d readily recommend to anyone but it is too cloying to my liking. But she had always been after me with saucer lips and wedding rings.
We met in a bookshop and of all the books she could have liked me to present her she preferred Jane Austen for some extraordinary reason and went about advocating me reading such volumes of senseless awfulness. That’s the problem with her; she always tried to improve me somehow even though it was not actually possible. And when we were feasting on sandwiches I bought, I saw something strange in her eyes. Her face was sort of reddish and she was what’s the word, blushing I understood. Then she asked me, sweetly of course whether I was capable of identifying something in her eyes. I reckoned she had a weird type of fever and observing her womanly gestures that followed I learned that I must not have said so. She told me I was being romantic and I replied that I was just being entertaining. She then suggested that we go into a place filled with loonies in scary clothes known as ‘Cave of fear’ or words to that effect. In perfect darkness those birds wearing a mask jump in front of us from all directions, a head emerges from the stomach of a dead torso, something sticky falls on you from a calculated height. It was to me funny. But she had a different opinion of the matter. Suddenly she screamed, dived at me throwing herself into my arms except my hands were still trousered, clutched my shirt and put her face somewhere near my neck or she might have missed her aim by a few inches. I being very gentle administered a brotherly embrace but observing her adjusting herself to positions that were more comfortable to her, I began to get the gist of her stratagem. I might have sort of tightened the clamp a bit, but figured out the quickest route out of the place.
The next time I met her in another mall, girls always ask you to meet them in malls. So they can help themselves to your valet and buy some trifles like mobile pouch, carry bag, a ruddy teddy or trinkets. After doing shopping which includes the above mentioned essentials and others which I forgot we were in for a spot of coffee. Her eyes were foreshadowing the impending doom. She started talking about stars for some time and asked me how I might feel when self and her were left to our own devices in a lonely planet. I drank in a moody mouthful of coke. Then I told her I had an interview the following afternoon and slipped out of harm’s way.
Quite by an accident I met her again this time with a school pal of mine except that later and self had not been very matey. He was then a fat kid who’d not lend his pencils to others and bite the hands of those who try to touch them. Girls who are too sweet always end up falling in love with stabbers and scoundrels. At this point a normal chap would have what-hoed to him and try to explain the girl how good they were as friends and all that sort of thing, I mean trying to be a gentle man. I being a quick thinker used that opportunity to call him a fat blighter. And as the conversation progressed I found other ten or so fruity names that matched his appearance.
He obviously trying to be nice in front of the adored object was just laughing not being wise to say something witty. And I was in an absolute top form. At this moment a girl of a somewhat divine nature would have reacted negatively on my pejorative remarks on the slob of fat. One could observe pain in her little eyes. As her brows kept curling I kept ha-ha-ing and she exploded as predicted.
As you might have anticipated I had rightly analyzed the psychology of the individual, in this case you might call it reverse psychology and she who had refused to give him wedding bells once became engaged to him and brought sunshine back into my bachelor life. This narration I am afraid might have failed to answer the question raised at the beginning, but who cares.